Anatomy of a Kiss
by Erinya
Summary: Who knew a kiss could be so many things? Contains spoilers for seasons 6 and 7.
1. Tasting Death

Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. These characters belong to Joss Whedon. God help them.  
  
Summary: Spuffy in all its dark and sexy glory. Only not Glory, because we hate her, that bitch. Oops, sorry. This story picks up right after the last scene of "Once More With Feeling," and it jumps back and forth between different times, so I apologize for any confusion...the first two sections of this chapter occur after the third one and before the fourth. Yeah...weird I know...but it just *felt* right so that's how it got written. It contains spoilers for seasons 5, 6, and possibly others if I continue in the vein of resurrecting every heart-rending, adorable, and otherwise Spuffy-rific moment that has transpired since James Marsters joined the show.  
  
A/N: I was poking around my computer and I came upon this story...just the first few chapters...and since I'm now a fanfiction-writing addict and a review junkie, I thought I'd toss it up on the site and see what y'all think. I may continue this, I may not. There's a lot of unexplored potential for this relationship in the show, probably because James Marsters and Sarah-Michelle Gellar are such amazing actors and have such amazing chemistry...I always see so much there that the script leaves untouched. We'll see...you guys can let me know whether you want me to continue, and maybe I will after the crazy kids of "PotC" relax their death-grip on my muse.  
  
I.  
  
He tastes like sin, a complex mixture of brandy and cigarette smoke and always under it that smooth sharp tang of copper. Angel tasted of blood sometimes, but Angel's mouth was always sweet to her, too, like chilled honey.  
  
Spike's mouth is many things to her, but sweet is not one of them.  
  
***  
  
She tastes like sunlight, and he thinks it just might kill him. She is bloodhot and pliant and desperate and is everything he's ever dreamed her as except more so, and he closes his eyes and he's lost in her, drunk on her essence as she slides over his tongue like wine, almost too rich to be borne.  
  
She tastes like sunlight and cherries, and under it an indescribable exotic flavor that is hers alone, the Buffy taste he will never get enough of.  
  
She tastes like life, and he thinks it just might kill him.  
  
***  
  
His eyes are dark with emotion as he steps toward her. That darkness draws her into him, his mingled compassion and desire.  
  
How can a soulless demon feel that deeply about anything...anyone... about *her*...when she feels nothing at all?  
  
That's what she is thinking when their mouths meet. She wonders, --did I know this was going to happen? She wonders, --how long have I wanted this?  
  
Because she does want it. At his touch something surges inside of her, something that is still alive...this hunger. She is so hungry for this taste of fire, this taste of him.  
  
She wonders, --is this really happening? Her rational mind is screaming her disbelief. But the rest of her is kissing him and cannot stop.  
  
He doesn't seem to believe it either, for a moment. Then his hands come up to her shoulders, he pulls her closer, responding to her hunger with deeper hunger until she matches it. This is not a gentle meeting, it is terrifying, full of violent need. Bodies pressed hard together, her skin electrified by his closeness.  
  
She always used to attribute that rush to adrenaline, when they used to be mortal enemies. Before they became...whatever it is they are now--  
  
--you're not friends. You'll never be friends--  
  
And she pushes him away as hard as she can. Caught unawares, he is hurled against the brick wall, barely saving himself from falling.  
  
He rights himself, raises those beautiful eyes to search her face, reaching out to her with a hand that trembles ever so slightly.  
  
"Buffy..."  
  
His voice is rough, pleading. For once he can't seem to come up with any more words. Nothing clever, nothing cutting, just her name. She can still feel the imprint of his body on hers; he is all over her, the smell of him clogging her nostrils and confusing her thoughts. She suddenly can't bear to look at him. She's afraid she might dissolve into tears; she's afraid she might fall to ashes, all burned out. She's afraid she might kiss him again.  
  
"No," she says. "No..."  
  
And she turns and runs.  
  
***  
  
He watches her vault the chain-link fence--one effortless bound, so much power in the slender limbs. He has never fully gotten over how tiny she is, even when she's tossing him into walls. Since her...return...she's lost weight, if that could be possible. But it's not the delicate twigs of her wrists or the sharpness of her exquisite collar bone that bother him.  
  
He's never seen that much fragility look out of her eyes.  
  
He lights a cigarette with shaking hands.  
  
Even all the bitterness of smoke will not mask the taste of her. 


	2. It Should Have Been Me

Disclaimer: This scene is mine. All mine. Except for the sets. And the characters. And the premise. And the important plot points. Ah, bloody hell.  
  
A/N: Once again, the timeline of this story is all wonky. This is supposed to occur between seasons five and six, where as the first chapter is set mid-six. (I had that wrong in the last chapter, I said seven but in fact there is nothing of seven in this fic yet and probably never will be. Let's just say it wasn't my favorite season...)  
  
II.  
  
He had reached the top of the tower at last. Too late; she fell away from him in slow motion, her hand still stretched out to him. The light swallowed her. The Gate closed.  
  
"No--!"  
  
A great gust of wind shook the tower, knocking him off balance. He found himself hanging by both hands from the thin wooden slats of the walkway-that-led-nowhere.  
  
But the wood was slick with some warm liquid, and his fingers were slipping. A drop struck his upturned face.  
  
Blood. From the sacrifice--Dawn's blood. It rained down on him, he was covered with it..how could such a little bit of a girl have so much blood in her?  
  
Then, as he lost his grip completely, the taste finally registered.  
  
"Buffy!" he shouted, falling into darkness.  
  
He heard an echo of her voice answer him.  
  
"Spike--"  
  
And suddenly her smell and her light was all around him. Her hair brushed his cheek. "Spike, you've got to wake up."  
  
He opened his eyes. Just a dream, then...a bad, bad dream....  
  
But it wasn't Buffy leaning over him. It was Dawn's worried little face hovering about three inches from his own, her long straight hair swinging forward to slide over his skin. Like the touch of a ghost.  
  
Buffy's ghost.  
  
Oh, God. It was all real.  
  
"Oh good, you're awake."  
  
"Bloody hell." His head hurt and he remembered again, which hurt even more. He needed to stop remembering. He had, he realized, been in hard pursuit of not remembering last night. Very hard pursuit. Vampires couldn't die of alcohol poisoning; they just got hangovers from hell instead.  
  
And she was still gone.  
  
Fuck.  
  
He closed his eyes again. "Go away." He wasn't sure if he was talking to Dawn or to his memories.  
  
"I brought you dinner," Dawn said, unmoved. "Or would it be breakfast? Maybe brunch--it's way past sundown, you know."  
  
"That's great, but I don't want any."  
  
She heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Don't be silly, I know you haven't been out in at least three weeks. Since...since..." She stopped; he heard her swallow hard. " I mean, I know you vamps can survive indefinitely without feeding, but you look bad, Spike. You're all....sunken."  
  
Her voice hurt his head. He glared at her. "I told you, I'm not hungry."  
  
She dangled the bag in front of his face. "Yes you are." Her voice had that stubbornness in it. The Summers steel. Joyce had it. Buffy had it...  
  
"Leave me alone." He almost snarled it.  
  
"Come on, Spike. A vampire can't live on brandy alone." She kicked one of the bottles littering the floor; it clattered against the sarcophagus with a sound that set off little fireworks of agony in his temple. He groaned.  
  
"Please, Spike." She had switched on the honey, but the steel was still there behind it. "You can't do this. You have to keep your strength up." He heard a quick ripping sound. "After all, who's going to protect poor helpless little Dawnie when you're a walking skeleton?"  
  
The rich aroma of copper filled his senses. She had opened the bag, and was waving it under his nose.  
  
--Poor helpless Dawnie, my arse.  
  
He snatched the bag away from her. "Devious little succubus." He scowled at the smug look on her face. "What are you looking at. Turn around and give a man some privacy." He didn't want to let her watch him feed. It felt...wrong...somehow.  
  
She turned her back obligingly. "What's a succubus?"  
  
"A very evil kind of demoness." The blood was fresh...and human. "Where'd you get this?"  
  
"The hospital. I went with Willow to visit Tara."  
  
"They start handing out samples to the kiddies?"  
  
She hesitated. "Not exactly."  
  
She had stolen it. He shook his head, half-disapproving, half-impressed. Damn, he was hungry. The bag was already empty. She heard it hit the ground and silently handed him back another. He bit it open, sipped it more leisurely this time, feeling it surge through his veins like electricity in wire. It was cold, of course, but he barely noticed.  
  
"You were dreaming about her, weren't you," she said as he drank.  
  
"I don't want to talk about it."  
  
A little silence. Dawn drew designs in the dust coating the rim of the sarcophagus, head bent to the side, her hair curtaining her profile.  
  
"You couldn't have saved her," she said finally. "None of us could have."  
  
His hand slammed down on the lid of the sarcophagus. "No!" A little cloud of duct mushroomed and settled. "I can't believe that. I won't." Propelled to his feet by the force of his denial, he stalked the length of the crypt, searching the pockets of his duster for his smokes. Dawn kept tracing her patterns on his tomb. Writing his epitaph, perhaps.  
  
"Dammit, she wasn't supposed to die." The pack he found was empty; he chucked it hard against the wall. "I t wasn't meant to happen. Not to her. Not now. She was so...she was..." The fresh pack was shoved deep in the inner pocket of the duster, crushed by his restless, alcohol soaked sleep. "I could have done something different. I could have taken down that old devil if I moved faster. Could have protected you like I promised--" His fingers were clumsy; he couldn't even light a fag. "Sodding incompetence," he snarled.  
  
Dawn looked up suddenly. She stood and gently took the lighter from him. The little flame sprang to life easily in her hand; she waited for the cigarette to flare, handed the lighter back. Then she turned and walked out of the crypt without a word.  
  
He watched the door slam shut as the smoke seeped into his lungs. Wiping his eyes, he wandered over to where she had been sitting.  
  
Spirals, crosses, a tombstone. And her perfect cursive. It could have been copied from a handwriting primer. No sloppy printing for Dawn.  
  
It said, "It should have been me."  
  
Shit.  
  
He snatched up the lantern she'd left behind at the door as he raced out after her.  
  
"Dawn!"  
  
She didn't look back or even pause. Just kept walking zombielike through the cemetary, oblivious to the dark, to the danger, and most of all to him. Luckily his cemetary was relatively free of other undead, lately. His kind steered clear of him.  
  
At least someone was still afraid of him. 


End file.
